


Actions and Words

by LadyLilyMalfoy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:39:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLilyMalfoy/pseuds/LadyLilyMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having planned to spend Valentine's Day in bed, Greg is called into work to face a long, grueling day. Mycroft waits for him to come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Actions and Words

It takes three attempts before Greg is able to connect key with keyhole; his head is muggy and tight with a tiredness that weighs heavily through each bone and each muscle, numbing his feet and pulling his hand away from its job. The night has been long, so long in fact that the streetlights normally casting a welcoming, protective light over the little cul-de-sac have long been extinguished, leaving Greg with only an early morning chill and the far off glow of dawn to return to. 

He stumbles over the threshold, wincing and shielding his eyes, his senses stunned as the sudden onslaught of electric lights blind him and the strong, distinct aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts from the open kitchen door in the distance and through the hall, welcoming Greg home with more enthusiasm than he has the energy for. Bracing himself against the wall with one hand and shielding his eyes with the other, Greg doesn’t notice the whirlwind blue and black stripes coming towards him until his coat is being pushed from his shoulders. An arm goes briefly around his middle and pulls him in as warm lips press against his cheek, before withdrawing and tugging him gently up the stairs.

The scent of coffee grows stronger as Mycroft pulls the unresisting Greg into their bedroom and pushing him down onto the soft plush of the duvet. Greg sighs in relief and falls back with a soft _whump!_ as Mycroft crouches to pluck at the tightly ties laces of Greg’s boots with well-practised fingers.

“What’re you still doing up?” he mumbles, closing his eyes in an attempt to keep the room from spinning.

“You know I struggle to sleep in our bed without you.” Mycroft eases each boot carefully away from their respective feet before drawing away Greg’s socks – hot and damp from the long day just passed – and pressing his thumbs to the balls of one foot, massaging firmly. “And I thought, given the day you’ve just had, that you would need some looking after. And besides,” Mycroft glances up with a wry smile, transferring his attentions to the second foot, “we haven’t had our Valentine’s Day yet.”

This elicits a second, more heartfelt groan from Greg’s lips, followed by a plaintive, “I’m sorry, love. And this is probably the last bit of holiday you’ll be able to grab for the next decade…”

“Hush.” Mycroft’s hands slide up to Greg’s knees as he leavers himself to his feet and looks tenderly down on the exhausted man. “I am in no doubt that you would much prefer to stay in bed, drinking coffee and eating crumpets, than out attending to other people’s dramas.”

“Drama?” Greg laughs humourlessly and pushes himself into a sitting position. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it…”

Mycroft moves around the bed to sit by the nightstand on which stands a steaming cafetiere. “What happened?” he asks softly, pushing down the plunger and pouring out two cups of coffee.

Greg accepts the cup and saucer with a sigh and a shake of the head. “Nothing I ever want to be a part of again, _that’s_ for sure.” He spoons four sugars from the bowl held out to him and stirs distractedly as Mycroft watches him with a frown of concern. “In all the years doing what I do, I’ve become desensitised to countless things that most people only ever see in thrillers or horror movies, but…” A shudder courses through him causing the cup to jolt. It is only Mycroft’s hands moving quickly to steady his own that keeps the coffee from spilling. They share a soft smile, Mycroft’s thumbs rhythmically stroking Greg’s rough knuckles, encouraging him to go on. Greg drops his gaze to the porcelain wrapped in their hands before continuing, voice meticulously steady to keep out the waver. “It’s the ones with kiddies you never get used to. _Never_. I mean…” He gives a helpless shrug. “You can’t rationalise it, you can’t even begin to justify it – not even in your own head, not even slightly. And it never gets any easier. This kid, this girl… She’d watched her dad bleed to death on the living room carpet. And then I had to take her away whilst her mum was arrested and charged with murder. She was screaming and fighting and didn’t have a _fucking_ clue what was going on – how could she? – and then she had to be questioned like she was a fucking _suspect_. It was awful, I mean _seriously_ awful.” He bites his lip and shakes his head, as though to dislodge the memories, then lets out a long breath and deflates as the exhaustion of the day overcomes him. “And now she’ll get stuffed into some sort of foster home, her whole life has become _so_ much harder than it ever needed to be, and through no fault of her own. I could see it all forming in front of me, all day and it just so fucking depressing…” Greg concludes with a low growl of frustration hunching over as the strain becomes almost physical. “I just don’t know how to remove myself and be impartial.”

The untouched coffee is drawn slowly away from his hands and placed back on the nightstand, and Greg allows himself to be tugged down and enveloped into Mycroft’s arms as they settle back against the headboard. Despite the aching turmoil of his mind, he feels his body gradually giving in and relaxing as hands smooth through his hair and stroke down his back. There is nothing Mycroft can say that will make it okay, and to even attempt it would be detrimental, but actions do occasionally speak louder than words and returning home to simple, warm affection – even after a day such as this – was worth far more than an earnest-yet-awkward card and a day set aside specifically for the proclamation of their love. It was an appreciated attempt – Mycroft had never been able to acquire the day off before and they had been excited to finally be able to plan their Valentine’s Day together (even if it did simply consist of TV and toast in bed) but as they lie there, as close as two people could possibly be, they come to the silent, mutual agreement that this – in the hour they have managed to salvage and in the light of all that Greg has witnessed – this is just as precious.


End file.
